Mr. Harper, You don’t know me. But I know what you did in the summer of 1998. And I think it’s time you came home.
The drive to Stillwater took nine hours. Will did not listen to music or podcasts or audiobooks. He drove in the same silence he had built his life around, but now the silence felt different—less like a shield and more like a held breath. The landscape changed from freeways to two-lane roads to gravel paths lined with pines. By the time he saw the sign— Stillwater, Pop. 312 —his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Will Harper
He pushed the door open.
Will Harper had not been to Stillwater since August 14, 1998. He had not spoken to anyone from Stillwater since the funeral. He had not told a single soul in his current life that he had once had a brother named Sam. And I think it’s time you came home
Will Harper had always believed that silence was the safest answer. He drove in the same silence he had
